Some Small Magic Page 18

  “Secret things,” Abel says. “What’s that mean?”

  “Could mean nothing. Could mean a lot. I’m not sure.”

  Abel turns the paper over, looking for more that isn’t there. He stares at the rest like he wants to devour them all, though he doesn’t. Dorothy wouldn’t have allowed it even if Abel had tried. Those letters will be a kind of nourishment in the next days. Might even point the way. Gorging on them all at once would serve no purpose. Better the boy take small bites.

  “He’s right about my momma. He said Momma don’t believe in nothing and he’s right. That’s another part of why I’m here. The letters are some, but that’s most.”

  “How’s that?”

  “There’s a boy at school. He was mean, to me most of all.”

  “Because you’re special?”

  Abel winces at the word but doesn’t disagree. “I did something to get back at him for all the mean things he’s done. Then I got in trouble. Momma made me go to a barn church. It was just to get us some money, but I didn’t know that then. I thought she wanted to get me healed, because there was a healer there, the Reverend Johnny.”

  “You thought he could heal you?”

  “Not at first,” Abel says. “And maybe not ever, I guess. He said he couldn’t heal me because I got no belief, but I had money enough for a word. It’s like he looks at you and sees your insides, and then he tells you what God wants you to hear. But Reverend Johnny didn’t do that to me. At least, I don’t think. We were out in back of the barn after. Something come over him.”

  “Come over him?” Dorothy sits up, forcing her body to move slowly and her voice to carry nothing more than passing interest.

  “I can’t figure it,” Abel says. “I told myself it was a trick. That way I wouldn’t have to tell myself it was true. But it was. It’s like something . . . got in him. Next day’s when I found my daddy’s letters.”

  “Now listen, Abel. I want you to be honest here. This . . . something. That what give you the word?”

  “He said my time’s come. That the treasure is mine should I seek it, and then I’d get healed and find my reward. But he said I had to go quick and not turn away. And he said the way is dark.”

  All falls to quiet in this hidden part of Greenville. Even the few cars that pass along the hill make no noise.

  “That’s what you told me, Dorothy,” Abel says. “You said the way is dark. How’d you know to say that?”

  “I don’t know.” And this is true, at least so far as Dorothy knows. Yet here is something (a comfort or a fear, only the coming days will tell) that tells her there are forces at play here, and some perhaps stronger even than herself.

  “So that’s all how I left,” Abel says. “Most of it, anyway. And now I don’t know what to do but go find my daddy.”

  Abel’s daddy. Secret things.

  The truth must come.

  “Even if it’s forced.”

  “What?” Abel asks.

  “Nothing.”

  But it isn’t nothing, it’s something. Abel’s eyes flashing that light, the living part inside that dead boy wanting out. Sent by a word. Dorothy will have to learn more of this Reverend Johnny. But before that, it’s time for them all to wet their fingers and test the wind. Would Abel’s momma be the woman Abel says she is and Dorothy believes her to be, he will have been found by now. And the boy Chris. Dumb Willie will have been found gone. Such a thing will be news. How they go from here will depend upon how big that news has become.

  “Don’t you worry, Abel. We’ll figure this all out. Meantime, how about we take a little trip in the morning? Train won’t be here until the sun’s high.”

  “Where we going?”

  “Think we’ll go into town. See the sights.”

  “Is it safe?” he asks.

  “So long as you’re with me. You tired?” she asks, knowing he isn’t. Abel will never sleep again.

  “No.”

  “Well, why don’t you come along over here anyway and shut your eyes.”

  He does, eager to do so, and lays his head on Dorothy’s lap. She strokes his blond hair and finds the skin and skull beneath more soft than hard, like running her hand over the surface of the pond. Abel’s breath slows. He lays his good hand near Dorothy’s foot, barely felt. His words are strange ones she cannot figure, yet spoken with a peace that brings her comfort:

  “Sorry, Miss Ellie.”

  PART V

  GREENVILLE

  -1-

  They gather this morning in the pond with pant legs drawn and rolled to their knees and their shoes lined along the bank. Dorothy splashes water on her arms and face before drying them with a handful of cedar bark. She then turns her attention to Dumb Willie and the bloodstain on the front of his overalls.

  Abel receives little consideration, not that he minds. He’s happy to boil up without being asked to strip first, and besides it’s Dumb Willie who needs all that doting because he’s so dumb. Any evidence required for this conclusion can be found in his description of the nightmares that filled his sleep, munsters and spuruts that portend evil things.

  “It’s . . . trubble. Comin’,” he says.

  Dorothy keeps rubbing pond water over Dumb Willie’s clothes, wishing for a bar of soap in a low voice. She quiets at Dumb Willie’s warning.

  “Don’t pay him no mind,” says Abel. “Sometimes it’s hard to know what runs through Dumb Willie’s mind even when he’s ’wake, much less when he’s sleepin’. Ain’t that right, Dumb Willie?”

  Yez is the answer Abel expects, as that is how Dumb Willie answers most every question he is ever asked. Only this time Dumb Willie says nothing and shakes his head. It is a slow motion, forced and quiet, as though he’s dunked himself in molasses.

  “It’s. Trubble.”

  “We’ll be fine now,” Dorothy says. Abel believes her. “But we’ll have to act our best when we’re there. Powerful thing, coming to a town. I had it in mind to keep clear and wait for the train, then you read that letter from your daddy, Abel. He gave me the idea. Now, let’s make sure we clean things up good for the next ’bo. That’s part of the code.” Dorothy stops here. Abel sees a faraway look in her eyes. “Always leave things better than you found them.”

  She tends to the remains of the fire, spreading dirt over the ashes to make sure they don’t catch. Abel picks up the unused portion of the wood.

  Dumb Willie offers his own contribution to the cleanup by digging a grave for what remains of his supper the night before. He chooses a quiet place along the pond where he says the birds sing best. The meager portion of bones and most of the rabbit’s head go into a small hole. A dandelion from among the trees goes on top. Dumb Willie fills the hole back up and pats the top as one would a pup’s head. Last comes a sparrow feather he pulls from his overalls, like his own magic trick. He inserts the tip into the ground as a marker and wipes the dirt onto his chest, undoing all the cleaning Dorothy has done. Dumb Willie now folds his hands.

  Dorothy removes her hat at Dumb Willie’s prayer, something about Dumb Willie loving rabbits and the woods and Abel and Dorothy too, and how all the world’s unfairness can be laid to the fact that all things must pass from above the ground to below. Abel can’t understand most of what Dumb Willie says because Dumb Willie’s crying, yet he bows his own head as manners dictate. His eyes, though, remain open. He is afraid if he closes them he will see Chris in all that darkness, flashing that look of confusion upon his dying face as he rides off on that Westbound, his head wrenched backward and the skin of his neck rippled and torn.

  -2-

  No place is the same. That is the lesson Dorothy has long known. The contours of every town and village and city are as unique as the ones who call those places home, the dips and rises, the hidden places known only to those who have grown up on those streets and neighborhoods. The manners of speech. The learned taboos of what never to say and injunctions of what to say always. Customs that seem as inbred as the shapes of noses and the c
olor of eyes. These are all things Dorothy can slip into and out of like old clothes, never becoming one with the great mass of those she shepherds between worlds but mixing herself among them if she chooses. And she chooses now, in this tiny place unknown to most of the greater world. Not for her own benefit and certainly not for her comfort, but so the small, brittle child beside her may finally confront a bit of the truth that brought him to death, and therefore grasp the larger truths that follow.

  They make their way from the pond up toward the hill and the road made upon it, following that hot pavement into Greenville proper. Dorothy leads the way, her leather bag over her shoulder.

  “Been awhile,” she says, “since I been Greenville way. Was an okay place back then so far as places go. ’Course things can change, which is why we got to be careful now. That’s the thing. Dumb Willie, you don’t cause no trouble. You be quiet and still.”

  Away in the back she hears, “Kay Do. Tee.”

  “And, Abel, you listen here.” She stops and turns, making sure Abel looks her in the eye. “Best thing you can do is keep to Dumb Willie’s side. Don’t you talk to nobody, don’t draw no attention. You understand?”

  “Don’t worry, Dorothy,” he says. “Nobody ever sees me anyways.”

  Buildings rise not far on. The road curves ahead to the right and meets another road, making the shape of a T. A work truck motors past there. Two cars. An old dump truck spewing gray exhaust. They stop at the wooden sign at the intersection that reads Welcome to Greenville, Jewel of the Alleghenies. A crow perched on top of the sign caws at Dorothy’s presence. It flies when Dumb Willie shoos it away, pronouncing it a munster.

  Dorothy shrugs off the bag and bends to her knees. Two marks are carved into the sign’s bottom. One looks to be an arc with a dot just above the lowest point. The other is a crude cross.

  Abel studies them. “What they say?”

  “Says town won’t give us trouble so long’s we only passing through.” She rubs the cross. “And if we find us a church, we might get some food. You hungry, Dumb Willie?”

  Dumb Willie nods.

  “Okay then. Here we go. Remember now, we’re just ghosts.”

  Dumb Willie moves up as they enter the bustling downtown, placing himself between Dorothy and Abel as though wanting to both protect and be protected.

  “Trubble,” he mumbles.

  “It’ll be fine,” Dorothy says. “All these folks want is to get on with their days. Probably they won’t even see us.”

  Abel reaches for Dorothy’s hand. To him and Dumb Willie, this place must be everything Mattingly is not. There is nothing of the gentle transformation from woods and farmland to streets and buildings. Greenville instead seems to rise from the land all at once. It is at one point not there and then there completely, a maze of paved roads and busy intersections and sidewalks crammed with those, too, in a rush to get from where they are to where they’re going. Noises—car horns and backfiring trucks, hollers of either anger or elation. More even than their long trip on the train, entering this strange and noisome place is what announces to Abel and Dumb Willie that they are no longer home.

  True to the mark carved into the town sign, most who pass regard them either with fleeting curiosity or not at all. They must seem an odd pairing, this homeless-looking girl and the slow white boy with her. Abel remains snug between them, unseen, watching all who pass. Dorothy makes sure to put half of one leg in front of where Abel walks, cutting off anyone who may have a mind to step between herself and Dumb Willie. What results is an intricate dance, dangerous in its consequences. One small misstep, and someone may walk clean through Abel and ruin it all.

  Thankfully, no one on this hot June morning manages to come anywhere close. Dorothy’s mere presence is enough to drive those in front of them toward the far edge of the sidewalk and those behind to allow a wide gap between. It is as if all of them—man, woman, and child—find their normal day suddenly impeded by an unseen shadow. A coldness drifts over them, a shiver that bows their shoulders and a quick sense of anxiety that forces many into a queer sort of chuckle and comments of rabbits running over their graves. Some pause, unsure of this feeling, drifting toward shop windows or ducking into the nearest store without quite knowing why. Others turn back toward where they’ve come from—making sure they have locked their cars, perhaps—while their hands reach for the phones tucked inside their pockets to call home and make sure all is well.

  Death is accustomed to such reactions. Dorothy finds their repulsion an advantage, keeping Abel safe in his ignorance. Even Dumb Willie seems aware, glancing at Dorothy and nodding in that way he sometimes does, one that implies he is not so dumb as most believe.

  “Main drag,” she says to Abel, though looking at Dumb Willie. “Busy day.”

  “Where we trying to get?” Abel asks.

  “Church. We’ll find the one marked. Plenty churches here. It’s a believing place.”

  Most of a small town’s staples are on this stretch but for the one Dorothy is looking for. They pass a hardware store and a smattering of fast-food places, banks and groceries and a pharmacy. Townsfolk and traffic blare around them in city song.

  “Seems to me,” she says, “there’s a church along the next street up. Visited there myself before. Preacher there’s kindly. Bet we can get you some breakfast there, Dumb Willie.”

  They take the next corner down, away from Greenville’s center. Here rests a quiet park of rusting swings and a pond filled with ducks and chattering birds, a wide cemetery beside. Across the street is another gathering of shops. A florist, a bakery. People mill about. The sun feels concentrated, giving everyone an air of aggravation at the long summer ahead. A group of old men linger in front of a barbershop. One, Dorothy sees, has made himself comfortable in a green plastic chair near the door. The day’s paper is spread out before him. And there, just down the block on Dorothy’s side, rests a gray metal box standing against the curb. To their left is a stately bricked building with two sets of stone steps that lead to a grand wooden door. The sign reads Greenville Church of Christ.

  Dorothy stops here. “Might be the place.”

  She circles around back of the sign and bends, pressing a single finger into the wood. A cough hides the burning sound.

  Sometimes you follow the signs, she thinks, and sometimes you make your own.

  “Yep. Y’all come look.”

  Abel sees it first, then Dumb Willie. The cross is just like the one at the start of town.

  “I’m going in,” Dorothy says. “Y’all stay put.”

  Abel’s eyes widen. “You mean we got to stay out here all by ourselves?”

  “Won’t be but a minute, and you got each other to watch over. It’s a careful thing asking a preacher for aid. Gotta know just what to say. Best you keep out of it.”

  The boy remains in place as Dorothy takes the stairs, watching all the way. She turns at the stairs and waves, counting six men across the street at the barber. One is already staring at the strange retarded boy standing alone in front of the church.

  “Remember what we talked on, Dumb Willie,” she calls.

  “Oh. Kay Do. Tee.”

  She pushes on the door, thankful to find it unlocked. Inside is a shadowed foyer and an empty sanctuary beyond. To either side of the door are narrow windows that offer a view to the street.

  Dorothy stands there, watching and waiting, then reaches into her shirt pocket for the feather plucked from a rabbit’s grave. With a gentle push and a soft blow of air, she sends it flying.

  -3-

  The people are fewer here, offering a sense of relief in spite of the old men gathered at the barbershop across the way. One of them is staring. Abel shields his eyes with his bad arm and judges his own side of the street. A mother and her little girl approach. The woman stops at a newspaper box halfway down the block to straighten the bow in her daughter’s hair. Dumb Willie assumes the stance of protector in front of Abel—feet wide, hands clasped at his back.

/>   “Say, Dumb Willie.”

  “Whut?”

  “What you think Dorothy meant by that? ‘Remember what we talked about.’ ”

  Dumb Willie stands silent, his back to Abel’s front. It is in fact all the answer Abel needs. He’s seen the two of them together, the side glances Dorothy and Dumb Willie share when they think he isn’t looking. Their private talks.

  “Guess maybe she means all that stuff about being ghosts and all. But now that I think about it, I don’t guess that’s what she meant at all. Know what I think, Dumb Willie? I think you and her got something going on that I don’t know. I don’t know what it is, but I think it’s something.”

  The woman and child pass. Dumb Willie breaks his stance when they’re close. His attempt to make himself look small only serves to draw the mother’s attention. She stares, placing her hand at the girl’s neck, and gives Dumb Willie a wide berth. To Abel’s comfort, the woman doesn’t even look his way.

  “Dumb Willie, you got a secret you ain’t telling me? Something about Dorothy?”

  Now he turns. Only some, and only long enough to say in a small voice, “I’m. Dumb.”

  “Not as much as you think you are,” Abel says.

  The gentler rhythms of Greenville may not be apparent but they do exist, a subtler noise beneath the tumult and thrum. Still, this is a foreign place. He and Dumb Willie are now even farther from Fairhope than when they started, and there’s yet a long way to go. Abel wishes his momma were here. Better, he wishes for Reverend Johnny and one of Reverend Johnny’s words. His mind reaches back to that night behind the barn, if only because that place seemed so less strange than the place he is now. He shuts his eyes and feels the cool mountain air on his cheek, loamy earth beneath his feet as Greenville falls away, leaving Abel too deaf to hear what Dumb Willie says

  (“A Bull it’sa. Fedder.”)

  and too blind to stop what happens next. He blinks to find himself alone and Dumb Willie down the sidewalk, stooping to catch something blown on the breeze.